


A Camping We Will Go

by Buckeye01



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Bad Cooking, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Camping, Fishing, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Mayhem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king wants to go camping but nothing could have prepared the Musketeers for His Majesty's boredom or the mayhem that follows. Entry for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge, Idle Hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Camping We Will Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MountainCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainCat/gifts), [evilmaniclaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/gifts), [Snow_Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow_Glory/gifts), [lluviayui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lluviayui/gifts), [Celticgal1041](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/gifts).



> Two of the seven special ladies mentioned below are not registered users of AO3, so I could not include them in this gift: Thank You, wotumba1 and newbeginning15... love you girls!

A Camping We Will Go!

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this, Your Majesty?” Captain Tréville questioned, his brow knitted with concern.

“Yes, I am sure,” King Louis adamantly replied, crossing his arms. “I want to go camping. I want to know what it’s like to be a normal man living off the land in the great outdoors!” 

“But Sire, you are not a _normal_ man,” the captain scrubbed a hand down his face. “You are Louis XIII, King of France.”

“Yes, I am well aware of who I am, Captain.” Louis dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Nevertheless, I want to know what it’s like out there,” he gestured toward the window. “It can’t be _that_ hard if mere peasants can do it.”

Captain Tréville was stunned at the comment. He allowed his nails to bite into his palms, forcing him to concentrate on the pain rather than the anger coursing through his veins. 

“How difficult can it be to sleep under the stars?”

“The experience as a whole can be more difficult than you think, Your Majesty,” the captain argued. “There is a reason why it’s called the _wild_ out of doors.”

“Pish posh, your disagreement is duly noted.” King Louis dissed the captain. “However, I _am_ going camping and I will take your four best men to be my guards; this should be satisfactory to you, Captain.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain acquiesced. “When would you want to leave for this camping trip, Sire?”

“This weekend,” the king smiled in anticipation. “We will go camping this weekend!”

**Musketeer Garrison:**

“You can’t be serious, Captain?” Athos exclaimed, stunned at the assignment.

“I am quite serious, Athos.” Captain Tréville paced angrily as a storm of emotions brewed in his eyes. “He wants the four of you to accompany him to the forest near his hunting lodge in Versailles; he is quite familiar with the area.”

“Captain, you said His Majesty mentioned going hunting?” Aramis frowned.

“Yes, the king wants to go hunting—as well as fishing.”

“Oh boy,” d’Artagnan groaned.

“You will have your work cut out for you,” the captain sighed. “You will do as His Majesty requests—within reason, of course.” 

“Captain, there is no telling what His Majesty might request out there!” Athos pointed sharply to the door.

“You are correct,” Captain Tréville agreed. “He sees camping as a personal challenge but your job is to protect him, no matter what. You men will do your damnedest to keep him safe—and keep him out of trouble.” 

**Forêt Domaniale de Fausses Reposes:**

“This looks like a good place to set up camp,” Athos said as he inspected the clearing. “It’s far enough away from the road and we’re close to the river. This high ground will allow us to see any unwanted guests approaching.”

“My, my, you do think of everything,” the king made a clicking sound with his mouth. “I suppose that is what I pay you for.” 

“Your Majesty, we are here to make certain you stay safe while enjoying your get-away in the woods.” Athos bowed respectfully.

“What shall we do first?” the king asked with excitement. “I want to go hunting!”

“Your Majesty, we need to set up camp first,” Athos replied. “Let us unpack our equipment from the horses and…”

“Fiddlesticks, you have plenty of time to do such work,” King Louis protested. “I want to go fishing!”

“But you just said…” d’Artagnan was cut off with a nudge to his ribs.

“Don’t say anything,” Aramis warned in a whisper. “Just happily go along with whatever he suggests.”

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I am the King of France,” Louis declared, his shoulders squared. “And I demand that we go fishing!”

“Your Majesty…”

“I tell you what, Sire,” Aramis interrupted Athos. “Why don’t we gather up your fishing gear so d’Artagnan and I can take you down to the river. While we’re gone, Porthos and Athos will unpack and set up camp.”

“Now wai’ a bloody…” Porthos growled.

“What a splendid idea,” the king agreed. “Yes, let’s go to the river while they unpack.”

“I will lead the way, Your Majesty,” Aramis instructed. “Stay behind me and in front of d’Artagnan; you will walk between us at all times.” 

Athos nodded his head approvingly as he watched Aramis lead His Majesty to the river, dutifully scanning every step of the way for danger. _There’s no need to worry, the king is in good hands._

“Oi, this is not startin’ off well,” Porthos grumbled. “‘Mis is goin’ to owe us for volunteerin’ you and me to work while they go fishing.”

“I think you’ll find that we got the better end of the deal, mon ami,” Athos grinned. “While our brothers are tending to His Majesty, we get a few moments of peace and quiet.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” Porthos huffed as he sat down on a log. “I don’t think His Majesty was quiet for five minutes during the entire trip here.”

“He wasn’t,” Athos shook his head. “That is why I will enjoy the peace and quiet while I can.”

“I have a feelin’ this is goin’ to be a long weekend.”

“You and I both,” Athos agreed, clapping Porthos on the shoulder. “Let’s set up camp before they get back.”

*****

“I’m happy we stopped by the lodge to pick up my angling gear,” the king said as he pulled out his rod and began putting it together. The two Musketeers watched with astonishment as the king threaded the gut string to his wooden rod then pulled it through the wire loop on the end. He knotted the string around an iron hook then baited it with an artificial fly; he finished with a smile that spread from ear to ear.

“Your Majesty, if I may, where did you learn to prepare a rod and hook like that?” d’Artagnan asked, amazed at the king’s proficiency as an angler. “Growing up in Gascony, my father and I used short rods with live bait and nets to catch our fish.”

“Ah, the art of angling is a gentleman’s sport; it has been enjoyed by the noblemen in my family for generations.” King Louis’s smile faded as he stared across the river. Memories tucked away since childhood resurfaced and displayed clearly on his face.

“Your Majesty, would you teach me how to prepare my rod the way you did?” d’Artagnan stepped forward to break the silence, his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

“I would be happy to teach you,” Louis smiled. The king tutored d’Artagnan as a father would his own son, preparing the third rod as the young Gascon followed along every step. 

Aramis stood back watching with wonder as the King of France cheerfully instructed his brother Musketeer how to string his fishing rod. “Too bad the other two aren’t seeing this,” he whispered to himself.

d’Artagnan imitated the king’s every move as he threaded then baited the hook. “Look, Aramis,” the Gascon announced with excitement. “I threaded my first artificial fly!”

“Yes, you sure did,” Aramis smiled proudly at the Gascon. “Well done, d’Artagnan!”

“I had the best teacher,” d’Artagnan dipped his head to the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis nodded with a smile. “I’m happy to see that I haven’t forgotten what I learned so long ago. I hope to teach my own son one day… as my father taught me as a boy.”

“I’m sure you will, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied. “You will make happy memories fishing together with your son as your father did with you.”

“Well, are we going to fish, or are we going to talk?” Aramis interrupted the awkward moment but instantly regretted his rudeness. “Forgive me… we can… fish… whenever you are ready, Sire.”

“I am quite ready now,” said Louis as he jumped to his feet. The king drew back his rod then quickly brought it forward again, just as he remembered doing as a boy. With a slight flick of his wrist, he let go of the line then watched with glee as it splashed in the middle of the river. Giddy as a young boy, King Louis jumped up and down as a happy smile spread across his face.

“How did you do that?” d’Artagnan asked, forgetting formal protocol.

King Louis pulled his line in to repeat the process as d’Artagnan watched him intently. The king shook his head as the Gascon’s first attempt fell short in the water, mere feet from where he stood on the bank. 

“Draw back your rod,” the king pushed the Gascon’s arm as he tutored his pupil. “Now throw your arm forward… snap your wrist… and let the line go. There, you did it!” King Louis clapped as the line landed in the middle of the river. “Well done!”

“Thank you, Sire,” d’Artagnan beamed. “Did you see that, Aramis?”

“Well done, pup!” Aramis complimented his brother. The medic tried to imitate how the king cast his line but was disappointed as his lure fell short every time. “Hmm, I’m certainly no angler,” he frowned. The medic plopped down on a large rock, deciding that he would rather watch than participate.

“How many have you caught, Sire?” d’Artagnan later asked as he pulled in another catch.

“I’ve caught four,” the king answered. “I hope everyone is hungry; we shall eat well this afternoon!”

“‘Mis, what’s wrong?” d’Artagnan asked as he cast his line out again. “Why aren’t you fishing?”

“I uh… I… you two were doing so well I just thought I’d watch.” 

“Really, Aramis?” d’Artagnan shook his head. “It’s not that hard, once you get the hang of it. Come on, why don’t you give it another try?”

Aramis reluctantly cast his line but gasped in horror as the bait was caught in a gust of wind. The sharp, barbed hook flew at d’Artagnan then landed on the back of his left hand, deeply embedding itself.

“Arrgghhh!” d’Artagnan yelped as the sudden sharp pain electrified his hand with agony. “Oh God,” he gasped at the hook protruding from his hand. The wounded man tried pulling to remove the hook but only tore his skin.

“Mon Dieu!” Aramis exclaimed, throwing his rod down as he ran to the Gascon’s side. “No, don’t try pulling it out!” he scolded as d’Artagnan tugged at the hook.

“But it hurts!” d’Artagnan protested. He cradled his wounded hand as blood dripped onto the sandy river bank.

“Let’s get you back to camp,” Aramis said as he wrapped the hand with a handkerchief. “Good thing I brought my medical kit,” he muttered. “I can get that hook out without tearing your skin—which is what will happen if you pull it out yourself, so leave it alone. You’re going to need stitches…”

“This is so exciting!” the king interrupted with delight. “I was getting bored with fishing anyway.”

“Nothing like an exciting change of pace to stir things up,” Aramis murmured sarcastically as he led the bleeding Gascon back to camp.

“I was perfectly content with what we were doing back there,” d’Artagnan moaned. “Ow, this hurts!”

“Of course it hurts,” Aramis huffed. “You have an iron hook in your hand.”

“Whoa, wha’ ‘appen’d?” Porthos jumped to his feet at the sight of d’Artagnan’s bleeding hand.

“Aramis tried casting his line but caught d’Artagnan’s hand instead,” King Louis giggled.

“Oi, ‘at explains why he always fishes with a net or his bare hands!” Porthos quipped.

“Did you unpack my medical kit?” Aramis ignored the comment as he looked around the campsite.

“Yes, it’s over there with the rest of your belongings,” Athos replied. “I was hoping we wouldn’t need that so soon; we’ve only been here a few hours.”

“Is that all?” the king fidgeted. “I’m bored.”

“We’re not doing anything until I take care of d’Artagnan’s hand,” Aramis snapped.

“Well, I never!” King Louis was taken aback.

“What he means, Your Majesty, is that we can do whatever you please _after_ d’Artagnan has been tended to,” Athos quickly intervened. “Where are the fish that you caught, Sire?” the lieutenant asked as he glared at Aramis.

“Oh, in our haste we left them by the river,” Louis pointed toward the water. 

“Let’s go back and get your fish while Aramis takes care of d’Artagnan.” Athos led the king back to the river with Porthos following close behind.

*****

“I’m really sorry about this,” the medic apologized as he cut the hook out of d’Artagnan’s hand. “I hope you know I wasn’t serious when I said this was an exciting change of pace.” Aramis spoke freely as he began suturing the wound.

“Ah, ouch… yes, I know you were just agreeing with His Majesty… ouch!” d’Artagnan jumped as Aramis threaded the suture through his torn flesh.

“Hold still!” Aramis ordered, pausing his stitching as he scolded the Gascon. “It was _your_ idea for me to cast out that last line; if you hadn’t suggested I try again, this never would have happened.”

“What, so this is my fault?” d’Artagnan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“No, it’s His Majesty’s fault,” Aramis grumbled. “It was his hairbrained idea to come out here—in the middle of nowhere—to camp in the first place.” 

“We should get paid for every time he says that he’s bored!” d’Artagnan snickered.

“We should get hazardous duty pay—if this is any indication of what’s to come.” The medic tied off the last suture then began bandaging the wound. “I _know_ we don’t get paid enough to put up with the king’s crazy notions of wild adventures.”

“This was an unforeseeable accident.” d’Artagnan winced as the medic tightly knotted the bandage on his hand. “Hopefully, this is the _last_ accident we’ll experience. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves out here…”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” the king sounded from behind as they returned from the river. “We have lunch here so let’s get started cooking—I’m utterly famished!”

“My father taught me how to fish but he left the cleaning, scaling, gutting—all that revolting work—to the servants.” King Louis plopped down on a log, waving his hand with disgust at the fish. “I’ll leave such distasteful work to you men.”

The four Musketeers traded glances, sharing imperceptible nods of disgust between them. They took out their daggers and began scaling and gutting the fish; the meat was stacked on a plate until ready to cook.

“We only began gathering kindling when d’Artagnan was injured,” Athos suddenly remembered. “We need to gather more wood for the fire if we are to cook.”

“Oh, I want to come!” King Louis exclaimed. 

“Your Majesty, I respectfully request that you remain here with the others until we return,” Athos bowed his head. “You are safer right here, rather than wandering around out there.”

“But I’m bored!”

Athos pursed his lips and glared at His Majesty.

“Fine,” the king sulked. He sat down heavily then rested his chin in his hands. “There’s nothing to do here; I do not wish to just sit and wait.”

“Your Majesty, how ‘bout I teach you a game while we wait for them to come back.” Porthos pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket. “Do you know the game, _Spoilt Five?”_

“Ooh, I do love to play games!” King Louis rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“This game is easy to learn and it fast moving.” Porthos nodded to Athos that he had everything under control; the lieutenant dipped his head in reply before turning to leave.

~§~

“Let’s take our time, shall we?” Aramis smiled as he clapped Athos on the shoulder, happy to be away from the king.

The two Musketeers wandered between the trees, scanning the forest floor for kindling. They spotted a fallen tree surrounded with broken branches and dried kindling with plenty to spare for their campfires. 

“Ah, there’s all the wood we need.” Aramis bowed dramatically as he waved his arm toward the fallen tree. The felled timber was on the edge of the tree line, opening into a clearing of tall green grass adorned with the pale purple of abundant heather. “There’s no need to hurry back yet; let’s sit down and relax a while.”

“But the king is waiting…”

“Naw, Porthos will keep His Majesty busy with the card game for a while… until he gets bored anyway,” Aramis frowned. “I, for one, would like to take a few minutes to enjoy this.”

“Enjoy what?” Athos questioned, the corner of his mouth turning upward in a lopsided grin.

“Enjoy the peace and quiet… and this lovely view.” Aramis sat on the trunk of the large, fallen tree and closed his eyes. He smiled as he listened to the birds singing in chorus with the whistling of the wind blowing through the pines. “I want to enjoy sitting idle, having nothing to do but soaking in the warmth of the sun as the sounds of nature ring in my ears.”

“Considering our luck so far with His Majesty’s camping trip,” Athos sat down next to Aramis on the trunk, “I’ll take sitting idle as a deserved break.”

The men closed their eyes and turned up their faces toward the sun as they let out a long, deep sigh. They sat lazily basking in the sunlight with a smile on their faces, enjoying the quiet solitude of nature with creatures of the forest as their only companion. As they sat motionless, their ears were attuned with movement all around them from the scurrying squirrels, fluttering birds and buzzing bumble bees. 

Aramis fell into Athos’ shoulder as his relaxed body slumped sideways, waking Athos as he too had dozed off. “Damn, I think we fell asleep,” the lieutenant said as he rubbed his tired eyes. “We better gather up the wood and return to camp before the king comes looking for us.”

“Indeed, before the king gets anxious and starts looking for us because…”

“… he’s bored,” they echoed.

*****

“What took you so long?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. “We were starting to worry.”

“We um… we had difficulty finding loose wood so we had to hunt around a bit,” Aramis fibbed. “We were so tired from the search that we needed a moment to rest.”

Athos dropped his armload of wood to the ground then lowered his head just enough to hide his face with the brim of his hat. He bit his lip to stop the grin from spreading as he took in several deep breaths. The lieutenant finally raised his head and smiled politely as the king exclaimed his excitement in learning a new card game.

“Porthos taught me how to play a new game of cards and I rather enjoyed it—I even won a round! Now that you have returned, let us get that fire going. I’m utterly starving!”

“What I wouldn’t give to go back to our spot in the sun,” Aramis grumbled under his breath as he gathered wood for the fire. 

“We had our moment of sitting idle,” Athos whispered. “Now it’s time to get back to work, ‘Mis.”

*****

“Ah, this is so exciting!” King Louis rubbed his hands together with excitement. “I want to cook the fish.”

“Your Majesty, are you sure?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. “Have you ever cooked over a fire before?”

“I can do it!” the king snapped. “How hard can it be?”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was out of line.” d’Artagnan bowed. The Gascon shot a worried glance to his brothers who merely shrugged in resignation.

 

“Your Majesty, I think you’re burning the fish,” Athos noted dryly.

“They’re not burned,” Louis countered. “They’re just a touch black.”

“Sire, you need to get the pan away from the fire before…”

Suddenly, the oil burst into flames, spitting hot grease everywhere. Louis smacked away the pan in a panic.

“No! Your Majesty, don’t…!” 

In an instant, the dried leaf litter went up in a burst of flames, quickly spreading to the nearby kindling pile.

“Get something to put out the fire!” Athos ordered the men.

Porthos grabbed the blanket off his bedroll and threw it over the fire to smother the flames. The fire dwindled then suddenly combusted into a fireball, spreading up the large Musketeer's arm.

The large Musketeer shrieked as he dropped the blanket then tried to remove his burning doublet. Aramis doused the flame with his waterskin but not before the leather was melted, leaving the hairs on Porthos’s arm and hand singed, his skin reddened.

Louis grabbed another skin to pour over the burning kindling but jumped back with a scream as unexpected wine caused the flames to burst higher. 

“Step back, Your Majesty!” Athos yelled, pushing the king aside without care. d’Artagnan and the lieutenant threw blankets over the fire then trampled atop of them furiously. They stomped out the remaining flame until every ember was quenched at last. 

“Mon Dieu!” Athos shouted to the king, out of patience and no longer caring. “Don’t touch anything else!”

“Porthos, are you alright?” Aramis asked, gingerly inspecting the large Musketeer’s arm.

“Think my jacket go’ most o’ it,” Porthos growled. “Dammit, my doublet’s ruined!”

“Your arm is burned,” Aramis winced, “and your hand. Let’s get you down to the river so the cold water can take away some of the sting. I have lavender oil in my kit; I’ll apply it to the burns after the cold water bath.”

 

“Just leave your arm under water for a few minutes; let it soak.” Aramis instructed Porthos after removing the burned doublet. 

“What do we do for lunch now?” the king asked anyone who would listen. “That was our lunch that burned up… and I’m starving!”

“We can fish again, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan politely suggested. “You seemed to really enjoy it earlier.”

“No, already did that,” King Louis brooded. “I want to do something we haven’t done yet… I know, let’s go hunting!”

“You can’t be serious, Your Majesty!” Athos blurted without thinking. “After everything that’s happened, I do not think a weapon in your hands is a good idea.”

“How dare you!” Louis chided. “I am the King of France and you will do exactly as I request, Musketeer, or face my due punishment!”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Athos bowed low in resignation to his king.

*****

Once Porthos’ arm was treated with the lavender oil and bandaged, the men grabbed their waterskins then headed back to the river to fill them.

“Make sure you fill your skins full,” Aramis told the group. “We can’t go hunting without plenty of water, especially when we don’t know how long we’ll be.”

“I will not get my boots wet,” Louis declared. “I’ll get my water from over there, on those rocks.”

“No, that is not a good idea.” Aramis stopped the king with a hand on his arm. “Give me your waterskin; I’ll fill it for you.”

“I want my water where it cascades over that little rock.” The king leaned against Aramis, enthusiastically pointing to the rushing water.

Aramis tried to correct himself against the king’s weight but momentum took him forward into the river with a _splash!_

“Aramis!” The men cried in unison as the medic was swept away by the fast-moving current.

d’Artagnan and Athos chased after the flailing medic along the riverbank, watching as their brother struggled to stay above the surface. “Aramis!” they screamed as he disappeared under the water.

 

Aramis looked up to see bubbles of rushing water above him. His lungs burned for air but as he took an instinctive gulp, he swallowed only a mouthful of water. _I’m going to die because the king wanted to go camping._

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan frantically scanned the rushing water but there was no sign of him. “Oh God, where is he?”

“‘Mis, please don’t do this,” Athos pleaded as he scanned the river.

The medic felt like he was inside a storm cloud being tossed head over heels by the wind; he was suddenly stopped as he crashed into something solid. His head finally bobbed above the surface as a gush of air and water was forced from his lungs by the impact with the rock. 

Aramis screamed out in pain, spluttering as he choked on the water still gurgling in his lungs and rushing into his mouth simultaneously. He turned his back to the current, coughing and gasping for air, as he clung to the rock for dear life. _Thank you, God!_

“Aramis, do you need help?” Athos called out with alarm. “Are you hurt…? Answer me, dammit!”

“I’m… I’m alright,” he choked. “I hit… the rock but I don’t… think anything is bro-broken,” he gasped. “I’m going to… _cough…_ have a hell of a br-bruise though.”

“Can you make it over here on your own, or do you need help?” d’Artagnan called out.

“No, I think… I think I can make it,” Aramis replied, steadying himself on the rocks. “It’s not too deep; I can wade across.”

Athos and d’Artagnan stepped into the river to grab hold of the medic as he neared the bank. Aramis doubled over to catch his breath, cradling his injured side. He winced at the shooting pain in his ribs, burning like fire engulfing his chest.

“Are you sure you’re alright, ‘Mis?” Athos clasped a hand gently on the medic’s shoulder. “Are your ribs broken?”

“I’m alright,” Aramis took in a deep breath. “Believe me, I would know it if my ribs were broken. I’m alright… just sore as hell.”

“We’re not going hunting,” Athos determined

“Athos, no!” Aramis protested. “I mean, yes, we are going hunting. Let’s just do what the king wants... otherwise he’ll order us to do it anyway.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Athos retorted angrily. “You’re going back to camp to rest.”

“No, I’m fine!” the medic objected. “We stay together, dammit. We’re safer—stronger—if we stay together.”

“He’s right, Athos,” d’Artagnan added. “With the strange accidents happening since we’ve been here, something tells me we should stick together.”

“Merde,” Athos sighed. “Alright, let’s get back to the others.

 

“Are you alright?” Porthos rushed to meet the group in a panic. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Aramis feigned a reassuring smile. “If we’re going to hunt our dinner, we better get moving before we lose sunlight.”

“Are you sure he’s well enough to hunt?” the king asked. “It is fairly rough terrain out there.”

“Aramis insists that he is well,” Athos replied, brusquely. “Let’s go get our rifles and get this over with.”

*****

“My father and I used to hunt for wild boar and deer out here; the forest was teeming with an abundance of the animals.” King Louis commented, though no one was paying attention.

“Aha! A pair of wild boar,” the king yelled with excitement. He lowered his rifle then fired; the ball hit a tree stump, splintering the wood. The muscular animals ran deeper into the woods in a fright as the king made chase.

“Your Majesty, stop!” the Musketeers yelled as they ran after the king. The chase took the men into a thicket where they were scratched and entangled in a grove of briars and brambles. They hacked their way through the thorny branches with their main gauches and swords, but not without injury to themselves and their leathers. 

“Ouch, dammit!” d’Artagnan cursed. “Mother Mary, this huge thorn just tore my sleeve!”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos growled as he switched from his dagger to his sword. “This is rubbish!”

“Aw, Porthos,” Aramis winced at the scratched and bleeding Musketeer. “You look like you picked a fight with a pack of feral cats… and lost.”

“I’d prefer the pack of feral cats to this,” Porthos winced as another branch scratched his neck. 

“His Majesty owes me a new doublet!” d’Artagnan grumbled.

“Enough!” Athos boomed with irritation. “Complaining isn’t going to help get us out of this damned briar patch!”

“No, but it’s either we grumble among ourselves or strangle His Majesty’s neck!” Aramis growled.

“There’s a clear path this way, gentlemen,” the king waved from outside the briar patch. 

Finally free of the thickets and thorns, the Musketeers took stock of their many scratches, cuts and gouges to their necks, faces, hands, arms and even their uniforms.

“Does anyone know how the hell we get back to camp?” a disgruntled Aramis growled.

“I don’t want to camp anymore,” d’Artagnan moaned. “Can we please just go to your hunting lodge, Your Majesty?” 

The king opened his mouth to answer but unexpected voices startled the group, catching them unawares.

“Holy Trinity, Pierre, do you know who that is?” the scruffy leader of the wayward bandits exclaimed. “Why, that’s the king!”

“Mon Dieu, do you know how much we can collect for ransom of the king?” Pierre laughed. “Look who else we have here—bloody Musketeers! I’ll be damned, Jacques, we’re going to be rich!”

Two of the bandits pointed their guns at the king while the leader ordered the Musketeers to drop their weapons. 

“Do as they say,” King Louis ordered his Musketeers. “Please don’t hurt me; I want to go home!”

Having no choice, the Musketeers dropped their swords, but then, quick as lightning, Athos threw his dagger before the bandits could react. The main gauche hit its target—lodging itself deep in the leader’s chest.

Porthos reacted by throwing himself into the bandit nearest him, knocking them both head over heels down the hill. The large Musketeer was first on his feet; he grabbed the bandit up by his collar then punched him back down to the ground, stunning him. Pulling out his dagger, Porthos plunged the blade into the man’s neck. He ran back up the hill as the bandit gurgled his last breath.

Aramis and d’Artagnan were caught in heated battles but were holding their own. Athos pulled the king to safety then prepared to join in the fight, though help wasn’t needed as the Musketeers promptly shot their opponents dead. 

The unexpected happened so quickly they were caught off guard when the bandit leader, they thought was dead, suddenly jumped to his feet. He pulled the dagger from his chest then lunged for the king’s throat. Athos pushed the king out of the way just as Jacques lowered the dagger and plunged the blade deep into the Musketeer’s upper chest. 

Screams for Athos and His Majesty echoed over the hills. The men watched in horror as the king tumbled down the hill, crashing over logs and rocks before coming to a stop against a large tree.

d’Artagnan shot Jacques in the back, killing the bandit just after his dagger buried itself Athos’ chest.

“Athos!” the Musketeers momentarily ignored the king whimpering at the bottom of the hill. The hilt of the dagger creased the leather, as the blade was so deeply embedded. The knife jutted out from Athos’ upper chest, just below the clavicle bone of the shoulder, numbing his muscles and rendering his arm useless.

“Athos!” the three Musketeers cried as they dropped beside their fallen brother writhing on the ground, his face grimaced in pain.

“Oh God, Athos, talk to me!” Aramis squeezed his brother’s hand, smoothing the hair from his sweaty face. “Are you alright?” 

“Where… where is the king?” Athos rasped. “Where is… His Majesty… is he safe?”

“Well, he’s awake and demandin’ our help, if ‘at’s what you mean.” Porthos huffed, shaking his head.

“Go… go check on him,” Athos ordered, ignoring his own injury. “Don’t leave him alone…”

“They’re all dead.” d’Artagnan hissed.

“We assumed… I assumed the leader was dead when he wasn’t.” Athos closed his eyes with regret. “My carelessness… could have… cost the king his life.”

“This was _not_ your fault,” d’Artagnan asserted with aplomb. “If anything, we are _all_ to blame for assuming the leader was dead.”

“Don’t… don’t assume His Majesty is safe when he may still be… be in danger!” Athos tried sitting up but was held down by two pairs of strong hands.

“Porthos is with His Majesty,” Aramis glanced over his shoulder. “Dammit, it looks like he is injured too. We need to get you both to a physician—we have to get out of here.”

“Get… this damn… dagger out!” Athos demanded as his hand pulled on the handle.

“No, don’t!” Aramis and d’Artagnan yelled, stopping the lieutenant’s hand. 

“You must leave the dagger in,” Aramis said, apologetically. “If you remove the blade, you could bleed to death within minutes. I don’t have to remind you that we’re in the middle of nowhere without a physician on hand.”

“Where… is the king?”

“I am here,” King Louis answered as Porthos helped him to the top of the hill.

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Aramis scanned the king for injuries. “Where are you hurt, Sire?”

“I think ‘is ankle is broken or badly sprained,” Porthos answered on behalf of the king. “Think ‘is wrist is broken too.”

“Are you the medic here or am I?” Aramis quipped with a grin.

“I’ve watched a certain medic in action long ‘nough to learn a thing or two.” Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder.

“That’s lovely but what about me?” Louis whined. “I am wounded!”

“Yes, Your Majesty, you are indeed wounded,” Aramis agreed. “This is why we need to get you to a doctor… and Athos too.”

“How is Athos?” the king inquired. Louis wanted to see the wounded Musketeer but Aramis and d’Artagnan blocked his view. “He saved my life; Athos pushed me out of the way when that man tried to stab me. Athos saved me.”

“I’m fine, Your… Your Majesty,” Athos replied to the king. “It’s our duty to… to protect you.”

“Porthos, can you help His Majesty walk back to camp?” Aramis asked the large Musketeer before turning to the king. “Your Majesty, can you walk back to camp if he helps you?”

“Yes, it’s not that far back,” King Louis declared with a smile. “I know these woods very well.”

“Good, then you can lead the way, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan returned the smile.

“Athos, can you walk back to camp?” Aramis asked with concern.

“I have a blade… in my shoulder,” Athos replied dryly. “My legs work perfectly fine.”

“Glad to see you still have your wits about you, mon ami,” Aramis smiled as he patted his friend’s leg.

“Let’s get going then, shall we?” the king instructed his Musketeers.

*****

The group made it back to camp with Porthos and d’Artagnan carrying the king between them, after he gave up trying to walk. Aramis stayed beside Athos, keeping him upright and moving forward, while enduring his own aching side.

The wounded men were set down on a log as the others packed up the gear and readied the horses. The king rocked himself back and forth in pain. Beside him, Athos panted with heavy breaths from exertion as black dots danced in his vision. His face glistened with sweat; tracks formed from the rivulets of sweat running down his skin to his neck and chest. 

“Your Majesty, is there anyone at the lodge?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“No, not at this time of year,” the king answered. “If Athos is up to the trip, I’d like go home; I’ve had enough of camping.”

“You an’ me both,” Porthos muttered under his breath.

“Glad to hear it, Your Majesty,” Aramis interjected, raising his brows at Porthos. “I think we’re all ready to go home.”

“Your Majesty, are you able to ride on your own, or do you need to ride with someone?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I will not ride into Paris like an invalid!” the king replied resolutely. “I will ride alone.”

“Your pleasure, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan bowed his head. 

“Athos, you _will_ ride with d’Artagnan, in case you pass out along the way,” Aramis ordered. “I don’t want to have to scoop you off the road.”

“I am perfectly able to ride,” Athos protested.

“I will acquiesce to His Majesty.” Aramis shook his head at the pale features of his friend. “But you won’t be staying upright in the saddle for long. As medic, I am asserting my medical authority and assigning you a riding partner.”

“A riding partner, ‘Mis?” Athos allowed his lips to curl with the hint of a smile.

“Let’s get His Majesty mounted up first,” Porthos suggested as they were ready to travel. “We’ll get Athos saddled, then you can slip behind ‘im, d’Artagnan.”

After the two wounded men were saddled, the group began their heedful journey west toward Paris, hoping to arrive at the Louvre Palace before nightfall.

**Paris:**

At the city gate, a guard recognized King Louis and took notice of his pained appearance. He sent a courier ahead to the palace warning them of the king’s arrival; and to request a physician for two patients—one being the king.

Captain Tréville had remained at the palace after guarding Her Majesty in a late afternoon tea party and overheard the announcement of the king’s return. After learning His Majesty was wounded, as well as one of his own men, the captain ran to the _Cour Carrée_ to await their arrival.

Her Majesty ordered the court to be lit with torches, giving the aura of daylight to the dark summer sky. The court was aglow as the haggard group finally rode in, worn and weary. The crowd gasped at the sight of the dirty, scratched, cut and bloodied men. 

Queen Anne gasped aloud as King Louis slipped from his horse into the arms of a guard, who then lowered His Majesty to the ground. “Are you alright, my husband?” the queen asked as she kneeled by his side.

Captain Tréville rushed to his men to discover d’Artagnan holding an unconscious Athos against his chest. The lieutenant’s head lolled limply on the Gascon’s shoulder, bobbing at the movement of the horse’s gait.

“What happ…” the captain’s eyes widened as he spotted the knife protruding from Athos’ chest. “Oh God, how long ago did this happen?”

“It’s been a few… a few hours now, Captain.” Aramis winced in pain. The medic felt like his side was on fire; his ribs throbbed after the ride home. “We left the dagger… in place to keep him from bleeding out… but no telling if there’s been internal bleeding.”

“Are you alright, Aramis?” Tréville asked, noticing the sweaty and pale appearance of his medic.

“I will be, Captain.” Aramis took in a pained breath. “Let’s take care of Athos first.”

“Guards, help these men from their horses!” Captain Tréville ordered.

“d’Artagnan, let Athos go,” the captain instructed. “I’ll take him inside.” Tréville gathered the unconscious lieutenant in his arms then followed the guard carrying the king into the palace. 

The remaining guards helped the three wounded Musketeers dismount from their horses. Though the men were stiff and sore, they caught up to the captain bearing their wounded brother inside. Palace servants gawked at the ragtag Musketeers with torn, dirty uniforms and scratched and bloodied skin. The men were oblivious to their stares as their only concern was for their brother, Athos… praying it wasn’t too late to save him.

**Later, Palais du Louvre:**

“‘Ow’s our favorite camper doing?” Porthos quipped with a grin.

“I think I’ve had my fill of camping,” Athos drawled. The Musketeer allowed himself to be hauled upright by Porthos and d’Artagnan then waited patiently as they fluffed the stack of pillows behind his back. He smiled at the welcomed visit of his brothers to his palace bedchamber.

“Enough for two lifetimes,” Aramis muttered, referring to Athos’ complaint. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, wincing at his bruised ribs.

“Are you sure your ribs weren’t broken?” Athos asked with concern.

“No, they’re just bruised.” Aramis blew out a long breath. “I’m fine.”

“Growing up, I spent a lot of time in the great outdoors.” d’Artagnan mused, still sporting a bandaged hand. “However, I think His Majesty killed my fancy for camping.”

"If I ever go campin’ again, it’ll be too soon,” Porthos growled.

“I thought it was rather exciting!” All heads turned as the king hobbled into the room, leaning on his aides. His Majesty was terribly inept at moving around with a crutch and his arm being in a sling, so he requested at least two aides to assist him wherever he went. 

"I did enjoy the fishing,” d’Artagnan smiled.

“Yes, and we will go again sometime,” King Louis nodded with a gleam in his eye. “I’ve never had so much fun camping in all my life! There wasn’t a dull moment to be noted; such adventure and danger at every turn. It was truly exhilarating!”

“Your Majesty, you were hurt…” Athos began.

“Fiddlesticks, none of us were hurt badly enough to raise alarm,” the king dissed the injuries. “The aura of danger; the excitement of adventure; no idle moments to bore me… it all was so thrilling! We simply _must_ do it again!” 

Athos huffed with disgust.

“Not any time soon,” Aramis whispered, though the king heard.

“Pish posh, we shall go again next summer!” King Louis ordered with a wide smile. “I cannot wait for another fun adventure.” 

The king hobbled from the room, laughing and squealing in delight. His excitement echoed all the way down the hall falling flat on the Musketeer’s ears.

“God help us,” the four Musketeers groaned in unison.

“Maybe he’ll forget about it by next summer.” d’Artagnan raised his eyebrows in hope.

“Don’t count on it,” Athos sighed.

“We can always refuse to go,” Aramis suggested with a straight face. “Then turn in our resignations.” 

“Hmm, ‘at’s an idea,” Porthos scowled. “It’ll be a cold day in hell ‘fore I go campin’ with His Majesty again.”

“It might get pretty cold next summer then,” Captain Tréville grinned as he stood in the doorway.

“God help us,” the four Musketeers groaned.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> After my latest story, I hit a low period of my writing journey. In tears, I was ready to walk away without looking back but several special ladies encouraged me to continue writing and never give up doing what I loved. These special ladies motivated me to pick up my pen and start writing again… I dedicate this long-winded story to them!
> 
> To my dear friends: **_Mountain Cat, evilmaniclaugh, Snow-Glory, Iluviayui, Wotumba1, newbeginning15, and Celticgal1041._** Thank You from the bottom of my heart, my friends!
> 
> Other Notes:
> 
> The earliest English essay on recreational fishing was titled _Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle,_ published in 1496. The essay was an interest of the nobility and was kept from those who were not gentlemen, since their immoderation in angling might "utterly destroy it."
> 
> The earliest record of the term 'cast a fly' was found in a publication in 1613. It stated, "the trout gives the most gentlemanly and readiest sport of all, if you fish with an artificial fly, a line twice your rod's length of three hairs' thickness... and if you have learnt the cast of the fly."
> 
> Izaak Walton's _Compleat Angler,_ published in 1653, helped to widely popularize fly fishing as a sport to ALL enthusiasts.


End file.
